Captains and The Kings by Taylor Caldwell

and he held Sean to his breast. "Mum?" said Scan, and his face twisted as he began to cry. "I want my Mum." Joseph stood beside the priest. He thrust the two-dollar bill into his hand. "This I owe you," he said. "I take no charity. Say a Mass for (my mother for what is left." He looked at the priest with daunting strength and aversion. Then he took his brother from the priest's knee and held his two hands in his own and looked down into the large tearful eyes. "Sean," he said, "I am your father, and your mother, now, and w-: are alone together. I will never leave you, Sean. I will never leave you." He lifted his hand less than in a vow than an imprecation, thought the priest with a dim terror. The ship was weighing anchor. It began to move from the harbor and the snow and rain hissed at the portholes and the wind howled in the lifted sails, and their last hope gone the men and women in the steerage put their faces in their hands.

Chapter 4

"No," said Joseph Francis Xavier Armagh, "I am not Irish. I am a Scotsman." "Well, you don't look Irish, that's for sure. But that's a funny name, Armagh. What is it?" "Scots," said Joseph. "An old Scots name. I am of the Established Church of Scotland." "Well, that's better than Irish," said the fat man, with a smirk. "Still and all, you're a foreigner. We don't like foreigners, in this country. What do you mean, the Established Church?" "Presbyterian," said Joseph. "I'm nothing, myself, though I'm no atheist," said the fat man. "Anyway, you're not a Roman. Hate Romans. Trying to take this country over for the Pope. And, you know what? What they do in them convents of theirs?" He snickered and leaned towards Joseph across his huge belly, and whispered obscenities to him. Joseph's face remained shut and smoothly bland. He kept his hands loose, for he wanted to kill. The fat man tilted his cigar and chuckled. "Well, anyways. How old are you?" "Eighteen," said Joseph, who was sixteen. The fat man nodded. "Big strong fella, too. And you got the mean look I like. Hold your own. That's what I need, driving these big wagons. Know anything about horses?" "Yes." "Don't talk much, do you? Just yes or no. Like that, too. More men been hung by their tongues than by the rope, hell. Well, now. You know how these blue-noses in Pennsylvania are. The blue-noses are agin drink of any kind, with them Pennsylvania Dutch and their funny hats and hacks. Amish." The fat man spat into a spittoon lavishly. "So, the po-leese don't like wagons hauling beer and such on Sundays. Godless." The fat man laughed again, and then fell into a fit of asthmatic coughing, his puffy face and bald head turning scarlet. "But there's folks who need their drinks on Sundays, and who should be agin them? And saloons run short. sq, we haul the beer and likker on Sundays when we get calls. Saloons ain't supposed to stay open on Sundays, but they do a good backdoor business. That's where we come in. You haul the beer and likker in a nice respectable-looking wagon with 'grain-feed' on it, and you deliver and collect, and that's all there is to it." "Except the police," said Joseph. "Yeh," said the fat man, suddenly and sharply scrutinizing the boy again. "'Cept the po-leese. Ain't likely to bother you, though. Just drive sober and straight. Farm boy going home or something, or out for a Sunday lark, driving his boss' wagon. Just don't lose your head. You don't look like the kind, though, that would. Feed bags on top of the stuff. Let 'em look if they want to. Invite 'em to. That makes them sure it's all right. Then you drive on." "And if they do more than just take a look?" The fat man shrugged. "That's what I'm paying you a whole four dollars for one day's work, a week's wages, son. You get stupid. Someone gave you a little money to drive down a few streets. You don't know where, and you're supposed to meet a fella somewheres on a corner, and he's supposed to take over. That's all you know, see? The po-leese confiscates the stuff, and